


Your Hand on the Pages

by Dolorosa



Category: Something Dark and Holy Series - Emily A. Duncan
Genre: F/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/pseuds/Dolorosa
Summary: In a ruined church, against an abandoned altar, Nadya finds herself drawn to the darkness.
Relationships: Malachiasz Czechowicz/Nadezhda Lapteva
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Your Hand on the Pages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesunsaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunsaid/gifts).



Nadya moved through the silent landscape, taking care to allow her feet to leave clear tracks in the snow. Should the others wonder where she had gone in the early hours of the morning, slipping out of their makeshift camp as the sun rose in the sky, they would be able to follow. She had left them sleeping — Serefin, Parijahan, Rashid, Kacper and Ostyia — curled up under blankets, exhausted from the previous day's long trudge through the Kalyazi mountains. She herself had slept fitfully, tossing and turning uneasily, beset by restless thoughts and the press of worry at her gods' continued silence.

Everything was crisp, and still, and glittering — once of those icy mornings she remembered well from her years in the monastery, the trees heavy with the weight of snow on their branches, Nadya's visible breath the only movement in the clear winter air. It was as if the snow had swallowed sound. Keeping a cautious eye on the encroaching forest which grew on either side of the track, Nadya made her way forward, alone in the vastness of the wintry world.

All at once there was a bend in the track, and, rounding it, Nadya discovered a ruined shrine, nearly submerged beneath the fallen snow. She dropped to her knees, her gloved hands attempting to uncover the aged stone, to reveal its secrets. It was so worn away that it was impossible to discern which god it had been dedicated to. And yet, buried beneath the snow, there was a little bundle of dried flowers, faded but still intact, a sign of at least one recent act of devotion. Nadya shivered, wondering who had been moved to make the lonely trek to this isolated place, and leave the flowers — and where that pious Kalyazi devotee was now. She brushed the last of the snow from the shrine, and stood, considering her work briefly, before continuing on her way.

That was when she noticed the larger ruin in the area — an ancient church, looming out of the icy ground. Nadya felt herself drawn to its entrance, taking in its shattered windows and crumbling stone walls as she passed through the door. There was a rush of cold air above her, and she glanced up, expecting to see an intricately painted ceiling, but instead encountering vaulting stone beams curving upwards into the open sky. Golden sunbeams pierced the air, spilling onto the floor like a path leading to the disused altar at the heart of the church. Nadya felt herself moving towards it, casting her eyes about curiously into the church's darker corners. She could not shake the faint sense of disquieting unease that had been with her since she had left her bedroll, back in the camp.

There was a movement from one of the shadowy recesses behind the altar, as a figure uncoiled itself from where it had been concealed: Malachiasz, flowing towards Nadya like liquid darkness. She felt a cry escape her lips: not shock, exactly, but rather something wilder, darker. Her hands flew to the little bundle at her waist: her old, reassuring strings of beads now joined by Malachiasz's old spell book and razor.

'I see that you kept the book,' he said, his voice echoing through the cavernous building.

Nadya remained silent, running her trembling fingers over the beads as if they could provide protection, wondering if Malachiasz had followed her throughout the entire journey, or only sought her out at this moment, when she was alone in the church. She didn't know which would be the more disturbing.

Malachiasz was still transformed, inhabiting his monstrous shape as if he had never been otherwise, and Nadya hated herself for a moment for that brief flash of expectation that he might have been restored to what he had once been: a broken boy, full of secrets, wandering the wilderness with her. But she had to admit to herself that she was drawn to Malachiasz even in his changed state, and she was the first to close the distance between them. She clung to him, even though the metal spikes cut her, the sharp rush of pain like an unheeded warning. She turned her face upwards to kiss his monstrous lips, and felt blood on her mouth.

Nadya revelled in the pain and blood, even though she disgusted herself. She revelled in the power that Malachiasz's touch reawakened in her, even though she frightened herself. He pressed her up against the altar, trapping her body against the hard stone, and Nadya felt her heart beating faster. She pulled him closer, another rush of pleasure and pain as his touch brought a swathe of new cuts across her bare arms. There was nothing soft about him any more — he was all blood, and thunder, and sharp, dangerous edges. With a sigh, like the hiss of air around a graveyard, Malachiasz released her.

'Call for me again,' he said, 'when you have made up your mind what you mean to do with your own power.

'Call?' Nadya asked, the first word she had spoken since she'd entered the church. 'I didn't call you!'

'Oh, but you did,' Malachiasz replied, his voice whispering around the empty altar. 'And you can call me again, more quickly, with blood.'

His movement was so sudden that Nadya didn't realise what he'd done until it had happened: with one, fluid motion he had slid her hand across the vicious blade of the razor, torn a page from the spell book, and pressed the page against her bleeding hand. Nadya was shocked to notice that he was bleeding, too, somehow, and had added his own blood to her own. She could feel the sheer raw power pulsing through her, Malachiasz's blasphemous ascent to godhood singing against her skull, promising heretical magic and danger. Her hand had fallen, involuntarily, to the string of beads, which were slick with her own blood. Her fingers ran over the skull of Marzenya's bead, as if seeking answers. Malachiasz stood, regarding Nadya for a moment.

And then, in a swirl of darkness, with a screech like metal on stone, he was gone, and she was alone, lost in an empty church that held no answers. She could feel the blood singing in her veins, and taste it on her lips, stinging where she had kissed him. She reached out with her mind, but the gods' voices were silent, nothing more than dust and echoes.


End file.
